Wicked Boy (71)

When I emerge, I see that Ezra has turned on the TV and is lounging on the couch beside the coffee table. An unused lamp is near the corner, hidden in the room's pitch — a pillow and throw blanket rumpled and pushed into the junction of the couch's arm and cushion.

The living room is dark. The windows are shuttered tight, with the blinds drawn under his pretty, eyelet curtains. The only light is a hazy white, leaking across from the television screen, mirroring in Ezra's watchful eyes.

He chews his gum, slow, jaw the only part of him that moves— expression an unwound preoccupation. The shadows of his lashes play across the cut of high cheekbones, and another swallows the hollow below it, near his hidden dimple — and at every edge he has in place of a curve.

I stand in the middle of the hallway, unexpectedly uncertain, heart capsized and wedged inside bone, unable to take any action beyond breathing. This is what normal must feel like. Strangely — domestic, even.

So why am I suddenly out of sorts?

The scent of Ezra's shampoo and soap lingers as I survey a home I'm meant to share. The significance of this change continues to hit me in waves, plunging into unfamiliar discomfort, and now, with the ripples, comes a misplaced, acidic doubt.

"... You look beat, babe."

Ezra's low voice, crooked as the lilt to his lips, head cocked just enough — like if he looks at me at an axis, everything about me will shift, rearrange, and he'll understand.  And that dries the tide, the empty, bitter pool that sloshes in my belly.

I blink, caught off guard.

Then, I touch my damp hair and shirt collar, and I nod. I bend, just to move my hands — to give myself a purpose, delicately sliding on the pair of ankle socks I was previously strangling in my fists — index finger sliding against soft skin, playing with the elastic hem.

"A little more physical activity than I'm used to." I grouse, for show, glancing down the hall towards his bedroom door — then back to him. Then I stand straight, socked toes now curling on his floor, and Ezra watches every movement — the same rapt, sharp attention as his television screen received moments before,

And my anxiety grows.

"I'll wash my clothes tomorrow... I need to buy shampoo. And detergent," I trail off, worrying my lip, feeling uncharacteristically scatterbrained with exhaustion — and that feels wrong, too, "and soap."

"Mine reek or somethin'?" Ezra's brow raises playfully, an persistent, gnawing apprehension to the air that he lightens, arm slung over the back of the couch. I snort softly, not unkind, gaze darting to my feet before they shift back up to meet his.

"I don't want to use all your stuff. There's a lot that didn't come to mind when I packed. I should make a list." I start, halt, and begin again, "Do you have a notepad?"

Ezra's playfulness vanishes, replaced by an intent awareness, stare dissecting, gaze narrowing to study me, a look like the one that first night —- a meeting under sickly-yellow rest-stop lights.

"... Right now?"

I don't answer. I don't know what to offer. I don't know where this sudden nervousness has bloomed from — I'm digging myself deeper. I'm alone with Ezra, and for once, it isn't driven by a rock-bottom plummet or a swing of mismanaged emotions and a brutal hit of vodka.

What do I say when I'm not falling apart? What sort of company do I become when I'm not distracted by the weight of being crushed?

I don't have a conversation topic that doesn't feel like it'll put us both to sleep. I don't have anything to say. I'm faultlessly hollow, scooped out — I was filled only with familial and societal expectations, and now I'm —

Ezra shakes his head, leaning back with his hands behind his head and his legs sprawled out,

"Look at you, all sleepy." He grins, false—consciously lax, calculatedly slow and lazy, like he's spinning a lullaby to coax me to bed, "gonna sleep standin' up if you don't make that list? Or do ya' think you can take a seat?"

I cross my arms, worry crippling under a gust of relief. Instructions. I can do that. I give him a skeptical look, all an act, taking the offered steps toward the couch. I'm dead tired, but his demeanor is warm and inviting, and I try my best to play into his joke,

"Is teasing your personal form of caffeine?"

Ezra chuckles, rolling his eyes, and I glance at the TV screen with him, trying to discern another part of him, my eagerness to know him tying my stomach into knots. I could go to bed. Sleep on this nasty feeling, this urge to collapse, today's events, but,

"I can stay up."

"... Yeah? You like this?" He juts his chin up at the television. It's set to a classic movie channel, and the image is fuzzy and dated — featuring a black and white billow of fog and an approaching station wagon.

I squint, the grain and distant soundtrack mildly disorientating. But it distracts me. I wrinkle my nose and sit down on the couch. It bends to my weight,

"I don't know. How much have I missed?"

"A few minutes, max. You ever seen it?"

"I don't think so," I feel the corner of my lip turn in contemplation. It looks familiar — but not enough for a name,

"Can't be serious."

"I didn't watch television growing up."

"... Not even the classics?"

"No," I shrug, "not really. Is it good?"

Ezra hums to himself and taps the remote against his thigh.

"To be honest with ya', it's kinda ass." His tone makes me laugh, somehow, secretive and deprecative, and he laughs in return, "It's one of those that's only good with a healthy dose of sentimentality."

"Oh. I get it."

"So — no to movies, too, then?"

My stomach churns at my lack of interests, suddenly on display, trying to ignore the burn of olive eyes that follow the journey of water droplets on my neck.

"...What about books?" He asks.

I sink into the cushion.

"What about them?"

"You read? You seem like the book type."

This is where conversations go haywire, where I realize I don't add up.

I spent my childhood firmly upon the golden pedestal of adult expectations, my father circling, straightening each sway that could send me tumbling. And I'd stand on that ledge, too high to climb down from, trembling at the thought of the drop.

There was no room for Massimo Minett's prestigious son and Milan, so only one grew there. Now, stunted, this is what I have to offer.

Nothing.

Fear. Anxiety.

And hardly anything more than that.

"Not unless it was a textbook." I choose honesty, no matter how dull it is, and turn to stare at the screen instead, tired and considering his question, "But I read in college. Sometimes."

Ezra nudges my knee with his, "Like what?"

I tilt my head, regarding him curiously,

"What do you mean? Like — what genres? Or what topics?"

"I dunno...." Ezra pops a bubble between his teeth and then shrugs, "All of the above."

"Well," I shift uncomfortably on the couch.   The few books I have read have been gauzy and sugar-sweet. Candy-like. No plot and a day-to-day fantasy, an escape to perfectly imperfect parents who disagree but never hit, who fight but never hate.  Of love and happy endings and cotton-candy skies. "This and that. We might not have the same taste."

"... What?" A snort escapes Ezra's throat, and he smirks, "Are ya' embarrassed?"

"No." I roll my eyes, drawing lines in the couch cushions, redirecting — not used to this, to him not flirting, but teasing in this ordinary, familiar way — to him talking and asking and the subject being so light, "What about you? What genre is your favorite?"

"Hmm." He chuckles, leaning forward and reaching for the remote, turning off the screen — his full attention centered on me, "Shit, I don't know. Sometimes I'm trashy. Like reality-show level, love that stuff. But, I like shows about everyday things. Movies — just real-life stuff."

"Real life stuff...?"

"Not big on explosions, car chases, spandex and lasers, fightin' and shit. Just — like simple, real-life stuff. Day to day. Family. Drama. Romance. You get it. I'm a simple guy."

I blink, surprised, and quickly,

"Me too."

"Oh?" Ezra's eyes lid as he leans in, and looking rather proud of himself, he tilts his head, "Well, fuck. That's embarassin'?"

"Well. I didn't — that's not what I meant," I sink into the arm of the couch to escape his scrutiny, regarding his narrowed eyes — his dark lashes. I pull the collar of my nightshirt into place. "Do you like to read it too?"

"Mmm. Nah." Ezra frowns, leaning back and stretching his arms behind his head. "Leanin' into the stereotype, but I don't really read. Tried it. Not for me."

"Really? Why is reading any different?"

"...I like lookin' at faces — I'm a visual kind of guy." He stares at where the ceiling meets the wall, in thought, "Feels distant, readin'."

I stare at his profile for longer than I mean to, before I then remember to turn my attention back to the blank TV.

"That actually — I don't know. It makes sense. Suits you."

"Doesn't it?" Ezra leans forward, elbows on knees, and stares at me. "You got any favorites?"

"No." I shake my head, "... I didn't read that much. I will, though."

"Ya' will?"

"Yeah. Maybe I'll have a favorite later. I wouldn't say that I do yet, but I will."

It's a promise to myself. I will.

I will.

I will.

"... What does that even mean? Not yet?"

I glance at the screen, wondering what this is, and then look back at Ezra — seeing the way his curious eyes remain on me.

"Like with songs. I think... To like one enough that it becomes my favorite. I'd have to associate it with something — a healthy dose of sentimentality, like you said." And then I add on, just to see if he'll laugh, "So it isn't ass."

Ezra does. Rough and authentic. There's no grief in the sound, no ugly memory tied to it, and maybe that's why I'm so devastatingly sentimental — about him.

"Mm," Ezra nods, finally, grin all white teeth and dimples that he tampers down under downcast eyes and coyness. He watches my fingers trace patterns on the couch first until I move them to my lap, shy, and he looks up through his eyelashes. I know he understands, but he still says — voice low, "For example?"

"For example."  I fidget with the corner of his discarded pillow, near flat from use, buried — a lump under the small of my back. "I want it to remind me of something. Maybe a good memory — or a good headspace." My eyebrows gather, "I haven't read a book like that yet. Does that make sense?"

Ezra's expression changes so subtly that I nearly miss it.

"It does."

"... You're talkative tonight." I hesitate to tack this on, but I do anyway, and then, "this morning. You were pretty quiet."

Ezra gives me a side-long glance, and I can tell, even though he doesn't say anything, that he's read between my reluctance and my words — that he knows that his quietness bothered me.

I feel a flush creep up my cheeks, and I look away, clearing my throat, trying to channel his overwhelming warmth,

"... Do you want to talk about it?"

Ezra tilts his head as if he's assessing that statement, his palms rolling over one another, rings catching small bits of light. Then he leans forward, knees on his thighs, forearms dangling between his legs.

"Was that buggin' you?"

I inhale, clenching the pillowcase between my thumb and index finger, ribs too tight.

Honesty.

"Yes."

"... You're real sensitive to my mood." He murmurs. It doesn't sound accusatory, cruel, or mocking — but it does peel from his throat like an unpleasant observation. "Like you're waitin' for the other shoe to drop,"

"Your mood is hard to read, so," I swallow down a bubbling, festering, insecurity, "it's hard. Not to."

Ezra's eyebrows rise, and he studies me for a minute longer, before turning his body toward me,

".... Sounds shitty." He says, honest. "I don't wanna make you feel like — ya' gotta be hyper-vigilant."

I nod. Nod again. I settle into the couch, shrugging — as if my heart isn't fluttering with mild validation.

"... I'm not waiting for the other shoe to drop. I mean, I trust you. It's more like," I accidentally hit the power on the remote, cringing at the sudden background noise.

"Like what?"

"Trying to find both shoes." I smile, wry, without humor — even though the analogy is the silliest thing I've ever said, "but you hid one. So I can't."

The movie plays in the background, and I find myself watching Ezra more than the show, caught by the light of his features, the strength of his posture.

"... We gotta start somewhere.  This mornin', I couldn't find a place."  He says after a moment. "Books. Movies. That's what I thought."

"What?"

"A starting place.  Baby steps.  Somethin' good."

"...You," I swallow, and I feel ruddy — hot as his eyes meet mine, "That's what you're doing right now?"

"... What exactly am I doin', pretty boy?"

"Getting to know — talking with me. This. Is this the reason you came home?"

He watches me, and then leans over the coffee table, grabbing the remote and clicking the TV off. I swallow thickly, and take a shaky breath, feeling my palms grow sweaty beneath the sleeves of my shirt.

Ezra places a ringed hand on my wrist, silver glittering and heavy, palm warm where he squeezes, thumb dragging over bone — before the heat of him is gone, crushed out like a cigarette in a dirty ashtray — but the smoke lingers, burns me up from the inside.

"I don't have a better reason."

I settle back into the couch as he turns back to me — the air between us still charged, my nerves racing.  Ezra tilts his head, and I'm on that same axis, crumbling, rearranging — feeling seen.

"That alright with you?"